


Homesteaders and Cattlemen

by Moransroar



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, save a horse; ride a cowboy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:06:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10848006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: It is the year 1846 and the Great Famine in Ireland is sweeping steadily across the country. The Moriarty family is doing alright until a large storm washes away what would have been their last successful potato harvest. Many families in their area decide to migrate, and James Senior is left with no choice but to follow the flock. Their journey leads them to Oregon, America, where they try to build up a new life and a brand new farm, and where seventeen-year-old Jim Moriarty finds an unlikely friend in an American cowboy that tresspasses their land.





	Homesteaders and Cattlemen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
> This is a story I had been thinking of writing practically forever. I would really appreciate it if you could leave kudos and comments to let me know if you enjoy this work.  
> This way I'll know to write and upload more to continue this story.
> 
> Thank you very much in advance and I hope you enjoy.

The last time I had seen Mother cry as much as she did on this occasion, was when her first daughter had passed away shortly after birth. Sure, I could imagine what terrible losses she must have suffered even before any of us were born, but I had never seen Mother as broken-hearted as the day my little sister Aoife finally rested her eyes for good. It was better that way, Father had said, and I had believed him the very instant he had spoken. Because that, too, was my opinion. Aoife had suffered a severe case of pneumonia for a little over a fortnight, and although Mother and Father had both been ignorant, I had foreseen this event long before it took place.

The most painful thing, was that Mother’s crying wasn’t the gasping, sobbing kind of ugly crying, but a soft, heart-wrenching flood of silent tears. The one and only symptom of someone who doesn’t cry for mere attention, but because it is simply far too difficult to put a halt to the salty streams down dusty cheeks. Father didn’t let me around her much during that period, but over dinner (which she would usually not attend as she remained in her bedroom for the biggest part of these days) we could all hear her from the kitchen. We always kept our mouths shut, though. If any of us spoke about this, we would make Father angry. Nobody wanted him angry, so we got used to spending suppers in silence while our mother quietly wept away in the other room. After many days that seemed too long, Mother finally joined us for our evening meal again, though she didn’t eat much. Her face was grey and there were dark circles around her eyes and I had never seen her look so sickly. I had almost worried that she, too, had caught the disease. She didn’t cough, however, and slowly but surely she would get back to her chores which had been left abandoned for a long time since Aoife’s death.

Aoife had lived just past her sixteenth year, and as the oldest daughter of the Moriarty heritage, she had been to be married shortly after her death. Of course, this never happened in the end, and her fiancé was nowhere to be found while the poor girl lay coughing her lungs out on her death bed. It had never had anything to do with love, if such a thing existed. Father wanted to expand his land, wanted to get more acres and with that more crops to harvest. The only option he had seen was to have his only daughter wed with the O’Byrne’s last born son to gain the few extra acres.

The crops of potatoes weren’t doing particularly bad back then, but they weren’t as they used to be. Many rotted in the soil before they could be harvested, leaving patches of land that had to be cleansed before they could be used again, which cost time and money. We all did what we could on the land, but with only three boys old enough to function properly and a few other farmers who had offered their help in exchange for a share of the harvest, it went far too slowly.

 

When I was carrying a sack of fertilizer made by the Browns – an item that Father had acquired from the Browns in exchange for potato seeds – down the muddy lane towards one of the four sheds on a corner of our field, I glanced over the tops of the vines. It had been, what, five months since our last fully successful harvest? The vines grew slowly, their thin, green branches reaching for what little sun we got during the day. My boots sunk into the damp soil, sucking the leather just underneath the surface and holding on for dear life until I tore free foot after foot with a soppy sound. It was about a seven minute walk from our house to the second shed, but I always let my mind wander and ended up taking about twenty minutes to get there and back again.

The wind rustled through the leaves of our crops, and the skies foretold that there was a storm to come. And as I watched over the vines and saw the tops slack and die, I knew that it was bad news. I slowed down, and eventually came to a stop, balancing the sack of stinky fertilizer on one hip to be able to really see the tops of the vines. Now, potato plants weren’t exactly good weather forecasts, but if the tops were dying, it meant that they were ready for harvesting. But if a storm were to come – and God knew how long that could go on for – it was likely that most of the harvest would flush away with the heavy rainfall. I knew I had to rush to father immediately, but with a heavy sack of fertilizer, that was an almost impossible task. So it was either me getting scolded for leaving behind the sack, or a great share of our crops going to waste. I chose the former. I could handle a beating for the fertilizer, I could not handle a beating for the other, greater loss.

I had never sprinted down the filthy paths along our land as fast as I did then. Almost quicker than my skinny legs could carry me. It was a good thing that my only prized possession were my boots – sturdy and as Father had said impossibly expensive – because I could not have made it back to the farm in time if I’d been wearing nothing but my own two feet. I ran, fast as I could, and when I reached the farm I practically barged in yelling at the top of my lungs. “Father! Father, storm’s on its way. We need to get those crops out fast!”

My older brother Tommy stuck his head around the corner into the kitchen where I’d just stepped inside and frowned. “Father’s not here, Jimmy. Try out back.”

I shook my head, out of breath with my legs trembling and my heart going thump-thump against the inside of my ribcage so hard it hurt my insides. “You go get him. We need to go. The potatoes. We’re gonna lose the potatoes!”

And like the sky up over our head had heard us, it let out a loud crack of thunder that sent a shiver down my spine. What I’d meant must have finally caught up to Tommy, because his eyes went wide and he went sprinting through the house and out back, down the porch. I could hear him yelling for our Father and whoever else was out there. Apparently, they’d not seen the storm coming. And just like that suddenly everyone was yelling. I bolted out the door and into the shed next to our house to grab a couple tools I could find. Father rarely let me work with our horse. Said I wasn’t mature enough for that yet, so they’d have to grab old Benjamin and haul him out there. I was afraid it’d be too late for that, though.

Even my sister and Mother ran out of the house to join us. Normally, Father wouldn’t have wanted them on the land, but he didn’t seem to mind now. We had to get as many potatoes out of that damn soil we humanly could or else we would have nothing to eat over the next season.

We were all out on the field in a matter of seconds, sticking tools and our bare hands into the ground to get out as many potatoes as we could and chuck them all on a big pile. Most of them were good, though they weren’t as big as I’m sure Father would have hoped. The sky grew darker with every vegetable we tore out of the ground and the thunder drew nearer and nearer until, with another loud crash, the rain came pouring down on all of our aching backs.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Father work so hard. Nor anyone else for that matter. Mother’s dress was covered in muck, and my sister’s hair was down and dripping. Tommy and Richard were ploughing through the mud and throwing up whatever they could grab, which my little brother Patrick gathered and brought to the wooden crates on the path. When I looked up to where the rain was pouring down on the other end of the field, I could already see the soil wash away and drain down the hill to the river nearby, exposing the harvest to the dark skies above. It was a devastating sight to behold, but I couldn’t stop working. I couldn’t stop lest Father notice and I would have another thing coming that night.

 

The rain didn’t stop that night, but we did stop gathering after what felt like several hours. I felt cold to my very core and I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes, but our field was now barren, and there were no longer vegetables for us to pick. It wasn’t safe to stay outdoors at this point either, as the weather only got worse and the time between the lightning that struck and the rumbling thunder that followed became gradually shorter. We would just have to wait until it was over, and then maybe – just maybe – we might still find some leftover crops. It didn’t look like that would be the case now, but I knew that we were all hoping for it.

Inside, Mother and Biddy lay a fire as soon as they returned so that our clothes could dry and we wouldn’t catch a cold. “God forbid,” Mother said, “That you all end up like Aoife.”

She looked sad when she said that. It had only been a few months, after all. But I suppose at least it was motivation for her to get us to gather by the hearth while she and my sister cooked up supper in the kitchen. We were all quiet, then. I knew we were all praying to God that we would have gathered enough and that, come morning, the field would be ready for a next attempt.

Father strode past us and he paused behind me. For a moment I was afraid that he’d decided I had lingered by the fire long enough. I was afraid he was going to ask me to come with him into the next room and that he would express his disappointment in me in a manner I had come to get used to.

Instead, however, his large hand landed on my shoulder in two good-natured pats, lingered there for a moment, and then retreated. “Good job, son,” he said to me, and I took a deep breath of relief. Nothing bad was going to happen tonight. Perhaps Father was too exhausted.

Right then, I was happy, despite the circumstances. But I was foolish.

I should have known that wouldn’t last long.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any historical inaccuracies please excuse me.  
> I only had classes on American History for a year and a half, and most of what you'll see in the story is bits and pieces I'm grabbing from those lectures, my textbooks and the internet.  
> I am also not a native speaker, without a beta, so typos and incorrect wording/phrasing might occur!


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